"Maybe the
Lord's going to let me get away with one." She came to him, and their
mouths met--a long gentle meeting. As they pulled apart, Oliver
realized that they were separating as equals. He felt a ripping in his
chest. He walked quickly to the door and took his coat from the peg.
Suzanne stood in the center of the room. She was crying, but her face
was clean and shining.
"Bye, Oliver," she said. "Don't feel bad."
He couldn't speak, could only acknowledge her and try to thank her with
a helpless wave. He went out the door without putting on his coat and
drove away without looking back.
The wind in his chest began to howl. He gripped the steering wheel
tighter. Suzanne was right. She was right. He turned south on the main
road. He was right, too, to go--before they got caught, before she was
seriously hurt. She would get over him. She had a lot going for her.
The wind howled louder. It was like a dark angel blowing through him.
He had never hit a woman before. He hadn't known he was capable of it.
The dark angel was telling the truth, blowing him down the road. He had
to set Suzanne free. She was better off without him in the long run.
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